After Life: All I Want
by Tingles
Summary: Hermione is murdered, but her ghost lives on to haunt the last person anyone would have expected: the insidious Draco Malfoy. What truly happened the night of Hermione's tragic death, and why is Malfoy the only one capable of seeing her ghost? H/G, D/M.


**Author's Note: I'm deeply apologetic to report that the following poem is not **_my _**work, but rather, it belongs to the creative genius, Edgar Allan Poe. "The Raven" will have a significant role in this story, as you will all come to find later on as the plot progresses. Do enjoy! **

_**The Raven**_

_Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,_

_Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,_

_While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,_

_As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door._

_`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -_

_Only this, and nothing more.'_

_Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,_

_And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor._

_Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow_

_From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -_

_For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -_

_Nameless here for evermore._

_And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain_

_Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;_

_So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating_

_`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -_

_Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -_

_This it is, and nothing more,'_

_Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,_

_`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;_

_But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,_

_And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,_

_That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -_

_Darkness there, and nothing more._

_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,_

_Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before_

_But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,_

_And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'_

_This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'_

_Merely this and nothing more._

_Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,_

_Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before._

_`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;_

_Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -_

_Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -_

_'Tis the wind and nothing more!'_

_Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,_

_In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore._

_Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;_

_But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -_

_Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -_

_Perched, and sat, and nothing more._

_Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,_

_By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,_

_`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven._

_Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -_

_Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'_

_Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'_

_Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,_

_Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;_

_For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being_

_Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -_

_Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,_

_With such name as `Nevermore.'_

_But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,_

_That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour._

_Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -_

_Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -_

_On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'_

_Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'_

_Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,_

_`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,_

_Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster_

_Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -_

_Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore_

_Of "Never-nevermore."'_

_But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,_

_Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;_

_Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking_

_Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -_

_What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore_

_Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'_

_This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing_

_To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;_

_This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining_

_On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,_

_But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,_

_She shall press, ah, nevermore!_

_Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer_

_Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor._

_`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee_

_Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!_

_Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'_

_Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'_

_`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -_

_Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,_

_Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -_

_On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -_

_Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'_

_Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'_

_`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!_

_By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -_

_Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,_

_It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -_

_Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'_

_Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'_

_`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -_

_`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!_

_Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!_

_Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!_

_Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'_

_Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'_

_And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting_

_On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;_

_And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,_

_And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;_

_And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor_

_Shall be lifted - nevermore!_

_It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--_

_Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."_

_Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."_

_~*~_

"You're here early. I was just reading some poetry--'The Raven' by Edgar Allen Poe; have you read it?"

"What are you doing here?" he asked, annoyance laced within every syllable he spoke.

She looked slightly put out. "Why wouldn't I be here? It's your dream."

"Why would _I _be dreaming of _you_ is what I'm asking. I'm not daft, you know," he snapped defensively.

"Hmm. That is a good question." She seemed to muse to herself for a moment. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"I don't have anything to say to you."

Silence lingered between the two before she prodded another question. "Are you feeling guilty about something?"

"No," he said bluntly, and she chuckled softly. He shot a glare at her. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." She chuckled again. He shot another withering glare in her direction, so she sighed and continued. "Well, _us._ Look at us. I'm not even real, yet here we are, still going at each others throats. We're coming from two different realities here."

"Dreams have a tendency to bring together two inherent realities, you know. It's not exactly a news flash."

Her smile slowly faded.

"I have to go," he abruptly stated.

"But you just fell asleep," she countered.

"Whose dream is this, anyway?! I don't have to listen to your rubbish." Before he could wake up, however, his attention was captured by her expression. It had changed from amused, disappointed, to..._pained._

He watched in strange fascination as her pain visibly spread throughout her body, down her limbs and to her fingertips. Her once fluid movements became jagged before she collapsed to the ground. Her body lay in a heap, and he stood frozen in indecision, not knowing what to do or how to help, if he even could. His first instinct was to simply leave her there, and allow her to deal with it herself, but she was staring at him, pleading with him to aid her discomfort, to assuage her pain as if she were being constricted by some unseen force. Her breathing grew ragged.

Giving in to his meager conscience, he moved swiftly to her side and knelt on the ground. He extended his hand to touch her, but recoiled as if he had been burned by scalding water. Caressing his imaginary burn, he let out a ragged breath of his own, before reaching to touch her once more. His senses were waging an internal war—should he aid her? Could he do anything if he tried? What good would it do in the long run?

And then, she was gone. Lifeless. Dead, because he had waited—vacillated between whether or not he should save her. Dead, because he couldn't make up his mind.

~*~

Draco Malfoy woke with a cold sheet of sweat covering his body. It took him a moment to orient himself before he kicked away his sheets furiously and sat upright, breathing heavily as though he had just sprinted. It was one of the many dreams that haunted his sleep since the day Hermione Granger died, and suddenly he felt a returning wave of guilt spill into his stomach.

His dreams—yes, his dreams of _her—_were never pleasant. They varied slightly in the beginning, but invariably ended with her collapsed and dying on the ground. He would stand idly by, torn between what he knew, or thought, was right...and what he simply wanted to do, which, of course, resided on the wrong end of the moral compass. And so, every dream always ended in the same fashion. But now, he wished with a sudden and surprising sense of regret that he had chosen to just help the bloody wench.

"Oh, come on! Get a hold of yourself. You've done nothing wrong. It was merely a dream!" he yelled incredulously into the darkness of his bedchamber. "Fucking Mudblood."

The blonde swung his legs over the edge of his bed and let his feet hit the icy stone floor, cherishing the piercing daggers of cold permeating his skin. He shivered consequently.

He grappled blindly at his nightstand and fumbled with his wand, juggling with it for a moment before muttering, "_Lumos."_

His room looked exactly the same as it had before he fell asleep, not that he had expected it to be any different. But his dream had unsettled him in an odd way, and he felt as if he were no longer alone. That feeling, the same feeling as if someone were watching him, made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He tried to negate that his tremors were due to the coldness of the stone floor, and nothing else.

A tapping noise on his window made him think otherwise, as it sent him tumbling off of his bed, landing with a loud _thud_ on the floor. The blonde's pulse quickened and his body responded proportionally, adrenaline feeding his every nerve, lighting them on fire as he remained motionless on the ground. Slowly, he calmed himself enough to edge toward the source of his fright. As he held his wand toward the window to illuminate the darkness outside, he found, much to his own abashment, that the culprit was nothing but a mere branch, swaying in the wind and rapping against the glass.

He sighed in defeat. "Granger and your bloody poetry."

If he were still dreaming, the brunette Gryffindor would probably contradict him and issue forth a biography of Edgar Allen Poe on the spot, describing in her egg-headed way how _delightful_ he was despite his dreary reputation. The Slytherin smirked at the thought, and he began to envision an imaginary quarrel with her in his head, as he wandered back to his bed.

Sleep certainly wasn't on his mind as he pulled the green silk comforter over his body, resting it just below his chest. Sleep rarely occurred after the dreams took place, causing Draco to grow weary and exhausted with the deprived hours of rest he was losing. The blonde briefly considered hexing his own brain tonight in order to remove the frizzy-haired Gryffindor from his thoughts.

"Stupid buck-toothed bookworm," he hissed.

He thought he heard something hiss back, and he jumped, his eyes scanning the room wildly before landing on the window. To his relief, it was only the branch scratching against the glass. Furious with his cowardly self, Draco scowled, and threw the covers off of his body before marching across the room and swiftly throwing the window open.

"_Reducto!" _he shouted, completely obliterating the branch into toothpicks as they fell and hit the snowy earth below. The severed branch was still attached to the tree as it smoldered in the wind, swirling into his room, a mixture of snowflakes and smoke. He slammed the window shut, satisfied with his handiwork.

Although he had managed to receive four hours of rest before the dream took hold, Draco desperately craved more, but knew it would be utterly fruitless to even attempt his luck. Four hours was pushing it, and the images of Grang—well, _her--_lying cold and still on the ground were still burned into his retinas. He knew the best way to avoid seeing them would be to stay conscious, though his eyelids quivered at the idea of not being granted relief for, Merlin knew, how many hours until morning came. Surely, it felt like it would be eons from now. That blasted ray of sunshine would fill his bedchamber the moment he finally felt like closing his eyes to sleep, prompting him to start a new day instead.

And, in that new day, he would be perfectly swell. He had gotten over the loss of the Head Girl instantly. Draco nary considered it much of a loss at all, though he wryly admitted to himself that he missed—if the word could even apply here—torturing her on a daily basis and receiving her bantering quips in return. No. He didn't miss her at all, as her existence was a source of constant agitation for the Slytherin Head Boy. Now that the school was rid of its top student, he could finally reclaim his position of being superior to the student body. It wreaked havoc upon his psyche to be inferior to something as lowly as a _mudblood_ for the past seven years. He shuddered with the thought.

And though Draco felt no remorse in the Gryffindor's absence, the rest of school did not, unfortunately, share his sentiments. It disgusted him how the entire school was behaving. It was understandable that Potter and Weasley couldn't forget her—they practically worshiped her. But the rest of the school nary paid attention to her. She was nothing but a bookworm, a bossy, eggheaded know-it-all. They didn't care for her, so Draco felt they shouldn't be mourning her as if she had been all of the seven hundred and thirty-two students closest confidante and mate. As for Potter and Weasley, they probably missed her brain more than anything else. After all, homework was always a chore for them, and the blonde Slytherin could only imagine how daunting it must be for them now.

Draco was ashamed with himself for dreaming of her again, and he wanted simply to forget of it and carry on. He'd wish the school would do the same, buck-up and make today different. That, maybe today, everything would be behind them all. But the Slytherin knew it was wishful thinking, because today marked the three month anniversary of Hermione Granger's death, and that made for a promising whirlwind of grief for everyone.

Except him.


End file.
